Revolotion - Big Brother, Little Brother
by Thesuncomesaftertherain
Summary: How would you feel if you weren't so sure if the person you love, the person you call family, really cares about you beyond ownership? What would you do if you knew your destiny will hurt them? Will it break a piece of your own heart? Because the world is never as simple as it is to a child,that he, the all powerful "Hero" sometimes still wishes he was...(Alfred, Arthur)


**Revolution: Big brother, Little brother.**

_The world was once so kind and inviting. Wrapping the child up in a blissful haze, blanketing him from those long exposed to the dark depths life can dwell out, that swallows the strong and corrupts the pure. Ignorance, Retaliation, Pain, Corruption, Greed, and so many more…_

Of course, the child _doesn't know_ that observing these big, tall adults with the odd silver and black objects that caused other not so big and scary adults to plummet to their knees was most likely _not _his brightest idea. Doesn't know the men who come up to him, stare blatantly at him and make grabs for him, or what would provoke them to do so. All he knows is the sweet, fluffy feeling one of them brings him when he comes upon the elder alone, in the serenity of yet another balmy summer day. All he knows is how hard it is to _not _pull those hairs on his face he later realizes are supposed to be eyebrows, and he knows how far away those emerald eyes looked before they see the child.

He gladly welcomes the warmth and feeling he happily recognizes as _comfort_ when the man smiles down at him. _Not a single grab or shout!_ In fact, the innocent surprise is what provokes the child to chirp up at him; to welcome him. _"I'll call you big brother!" _When the other funny looking man presents the child with things that pull at his stomach and smell just _heavenly_, yes, he knows that it's the innocent, pure, genuine grief is what brings the child to _his_ side, the side of surprised, emerald orbs, monstrous "eyebrows" and a smile that can bring out the sun in the child's blooming world.

The child has no idea why the elder had such wetness prodding in his eyes, or why he had been fighting with his "companion". The child doesn't even think to ask. All he knew is that a smile was so much more fitting for the man, and was desperate to get what he wanted; that same happy glow from the elder's kind smile.

(The glow comes. But it dies away far too fast, just like nearly all his other illusions.)

No, the child has no idea of what he has just done. Of what lay in store with the terms "Big Brother, Little Brother". The child has merely acted on impulse, as he always had –_and always would._

* * *

_When did all of this start?_ The child has grown, tottering on the abyss of manhood even, and his protective bubble has stayed his companion, shying away intruders that dare attempt to penetrate. Yet the years have unleashed bullets, and they begin to latch onto the bubble greedily, nipping at it, and tearing it down to the boy's eye level, _forcing him to see. _To see how the land he roams has become something of a cage, yet another possession of _his. _To see how, as he flourishes and grows (and he grows much, at this point nearly surpassing _him_ in height), that _his _seem to grow stormy and his voice rises in pitch - "_America! You've grown!" _And the bills_ he_ makes his _colony – not Brother anymore, it's colony – _seem to increase drastically by the inch. _How is it that, with my every accomplishment, he seems personally blown? Am I really so threatening to him? But why? _

(And it is not long, not long at all, before he realizes the answer to that question.)

As the years inch away, the boy – because that's still what he is in the deep recesses of his pumping heart, a boy, although at this point he can pass as a man - tries _so hard_ not to see. But he can't ignore it, because he can feel in every dang heartbeat the grief of a taxpayer who can't pay the rent. In every breath, he breaths in the longing of Americans who long to break free of this British cage and make up their _own_ rules, live by their _own_ terms. These desires become _his_ desires. With every drop of sweat, every cent in his pocket; with every ray of sunshine, every crop grown, every passing citizen, the longing grows. This is _his. _

_ Is it really so much to ask, to want to own your own life? Be proud of your own achievements, and know you're free? Is it so much to ask to know someone you care about would still want to talk to you, still care if you wake up every morning and get back to bed safely at night, eat healthily and _live, _because they care about you too, not just because they _own _you? _

This youth can separate the thoughts of the boy inside him – _Alfred Jones – _and the nation he will have to become – _the United States of America. _As a budding nation, he longs lustfully for _freedom, independence. _As _Alfred_, he sweats at the thought of shunning the life he has always known, and he shrinks at the thought of abandoning the guardian who he loves as a father. Yet, as a boy, he also feels hurt. Hurt at how he is now being so blatantly used as a possession - nothing but a free for all of tax money. Is that all Arthur sees him for? A piggy bank, a new toy to flaunt at France? Is that all he ever was? Did Arthur ever see him as a son, as Alfred had always seen him as a father? Did Arthur even ever really consider him a little brother?

As nations, he knows and can even understand how the British Empire would only see him as a simple, profitable, colony. But as humans, he feels his heart grow cold at the realization that _Arthur Kirkland_ has probably always seen _Alfred Jones_ as yet another possession to bend to his will, flaunt at France, and make easy money off of. Maybe that was the real reason he gave America liberties like large immigration and personal freedoms, like a variety of religions. To see how much more he could make in the end. Deep down, maybe Alfred can see how that may not be true, how Arthur would give him personal liberties because maybe, _maybe, _he cares. Those caring, kind brotherly and fatherly looks couldn't of been lies….

Still, the need for self independence is strong, _so strong,_ and with all these factors, as both America and Alfred, the nation knows he must do something. He tries compromising. "Look, Britain, these are my terms! You need to bring these taxes to parliament first, this isn't fair!" _I really don't want to fight you. Maybe you don't care about me – I care about you. As Alfred to Arthur, I'm giving you a last chance. Please accept the compromise. Please, Arthur…_

(His request is not accepted. Britain refuses; Arthur snaps at him, snarling profanities. Alfred is hurt and angry; America is furious.)

_Alfred feels pain devouring all that was left of his sunny, protective bubble. "Ungrateful brat." So it's true. Arthur really doesn't care about Alfred beyond ownership. The stories, the toy soldiers _he_ had given him..all amounted to nothing. Alfred should of expected this. Why would the man, the heart of the British Empire, even have room in his busy schedule to care about anything but money and power? Obviously things were more important to Arthur. Seeing this, understanding this, struck a chord in Alfred. It hurt to see these truths. Maybe sensing how people feel, sensing the mood of a room, is some intellectual bonus, but sensing this is almost too for him to bear. If Alfred had just acted on impulse and defied Britain like this earlier, before he had been snapped at and seen the truth so painfully obvious, then maybe it wouldn't hurt the human in him so much. What good is not acting on Impulse and sensing people's moods? Do what works for yourself. That's far more profitable; far less painful…And if you know what path you have to follow regardless, why let these emotions you've come to realize just make it worse? _

Alfred stops thinking about things from Arthur's angle; stops looking from _Britain's_ angle. _Because _he's _the closest that he's ever had to family, the closest feeling he's had to love; the love a child has for a parent, the most pure and strong. Why slice his heart up further; he's already figured out he's nothing but a tool to the rest of the world, already knows what he has to do; why must this hurt so much, oh someone help him,help him please because he can't think anymore and these thoughts of _what he is doing_ won't stop shredding his soul, oh please let him rest, let him sleep…_

(And sleep doesn't come easy when you know you're about to set the closest ideal you've ever had to family in flames that will probably char it until it's unrecognizable; even if it was a mere illusion to begin with…) He lets his nation side overwhelm him, and begins to calculate. _So protesting didn't work._ _France loves kicking British butt, maybe he'll help me? How much does an army cost, anyways? Because _he _won't give up his most profitable piece of land without a fight. No, he won't give up without a battle. Well, neither will I. For my future, my people, I will have to grow up – I will become what they need. Not a British lapdog. _The United States of America.

He defies Britain. He goes to France seeking help; and help France does, morbidly gleeful at any opportunity to hurt Britain. The thought is so tangible it builds up bile in Alfred's throat- but he swallows, remembering that it certainly wouldn't hurt Arthur that much emotionally, besides embarrassment at losing. And as far as hurting his former big brother/guardian physically, well, it wouldn't affect the elder long, and what other choice was there? Maybe he should just align his values with Arthur's -what _works for me and my peop_le_. Whatever grants me my power. _And so he forces himself to forget how it isn't only Britain and Arthur he'll betray, but his very heart. _He's becoming very good at seeing what he wants to see; believing what he wants to believe…_

As predicted, things escalate and soon America is facing Britain on a battle field.

A very muddy, grey battle field. It's as though the sun has decided the whole thing is too much and has hidden away, giving the grey clouds liberty to pollute the sky with their melancholy coats of grey and rain. The somber sky overlooks the somber, tense, and nerve wracking assembly of soldiers down below. The redcoats and the bluecoats.

It's difficult not to immediately find the irate, stormy, and otherwise expressionless emerald eyes that bore into him. He _has _to keep stone faced and at the ready.

When America finally looks at Britain, the elder nearly back steps at how powerful the boy- no, _man_ – has become. _He can tell just by looking. _But the look in his eyes is somehow not the one of a man losing his best toy. It's of a man losing his everything; the one spark of genuine happiness he had. But Alfred doesn't see – _he won't allow himself to_. He's surprised at how hard it is to feel every pain for every American at this point; but he has no choice. America – Alfred- reminds himself that _Arthur doesn't care about him_. And when he can't convince himself so well, looking at those breaking emerald eyes, _emerald eyes trying and failing so hard at concealing the agony, _he viciously and internally fights the urge to try and just talk it out. Because he knows it will be futile, knows it will hurt them both in the end. _Remember why we're here. _So he forces the glare on, thinking of every pain Britain has caused him, and that-along with his frustrations at his own pain- is enough to make him angry. He doesn't need to know who at right now; he has a target none the less. The man in front of him, whose pain Alfred _cannot and will not _let himself see. Heck, Alfred is refusing to even attempt to calculate his _own_ pain at this point.

America speaks: he uses simple words, but loud, clear, and effectual. He finishes his small speech with the most powerful words of all:

"_From now on, consider me, __independent!__"_

That's what does it.

Britain – or is it really Arthur at this point? – Charges, rifle in hand. His emerald eyes look angry again, and he lunges at the budding nation. The rifles clash; and Arthur, who was certainly experienced in battle, manages to throw America's – Alfred's -rifle up into the air. They both hear the thud as it crashes among the British soldiers no one can really see anymore; all eyes are on the personifications.

The elder has the upper hand. He aims steadily at the younger, eyes fierce. "_You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end!"_

The younger's eyes try to remain fierce; but the pain in the air is so tangible. He wants to drop his gun. He wants all these boys to go home. He wants to know Britain – Arthur- really does care about him –let his nation side allow his human side to soak in this. He wants to let go of his fears. He wants Arthur to let go of money and power before it's too late to save either of them. He wants Arthur to just _fight him _so he can't further betray his own heart; so it will be easier to lie to himself. He wants them all to forget power and gain. He doesn't want to become high and corrupt on power too, and he wishes wishes _wishes_ that hadn't happened to Arthur, to Britain. Alfred wanted and wanted…

A solider shouts out for them to aim. Alfred prepares himself to be shot, still wishing wishing wishing…but he knows it's hopeless because dreams and wishes never came true; otherwise this nightmare _wouldn't be happening._ And he tries to remind himself that he was furious at Arthur and Britain, but that was slipping…

"I can't shoot you. I just… I can't_."_

The voice comes out half strangled, as Arthur Kirkland – personification of the _British Empire_ – falls to his knees, into the unforgiving mud. No matter how hard he fights, he can't hold that tear at bay. It falls down the older man's cheek, just as lonely as they both are, now, as he covers his face, shaking as he sobs.

_So he does care about me as his baby brother? _Yet this realization is somehow not such a surprise; did he know it all along under all his fear and determination? He didn't know at this point, but none the less it just causes an even larger torrent of pain and anger through the American - he has broken pieces to two hearts today, not just his own by tearing apart this family portrait. And it would be _so much easier_ to feel neglected and angry...now he isn't even afforded that. He cannot, and would not if he could, undo this revolution; it was inevitable;e that this day would come. Yet it breaks him inside all the more to know he's hurt Arthur far emotional than he had physically.

The world freezes, and Alfred realizes that hope for a happy ending is long past. That maybe happy endings don't even exist anymore, or ever did. A million tragedies are told in each roll of Arthur's shoulders as he sobs, showing vulnerability that was enough to break another chunk of Alfred's heart. Yet Arthur would never see the single tear on his _former _colony's face. Would never hear the man's internal curses to the world, would never know _how much_ Alfred wanted to wrap his arms around him, and would never know just how irrevocably _both_ of their lives were changed.

The older sobs out questions of "Why?"

The younger wants to cry too. Wants answers too. Yet the only answer he can provide is cold, distant; he still says it.

"…You_ know_ why." _Because both our nations are so strong, because I want to be your equal, because the world is cold and cruel and destroys us both. Because I can't stop this, couldn't from the start; and because you are corrupted by money and power and I _can't watch it anymore.

The younger never realizes he says another sentence out loud; not his reasons, but his testament to all the memories the elder had given him. Everything hits them both; all the times they felt _so comfortable_ with one another, how close they were; how perilous the piousness loneliness is, as it rips away comfort and youth for jaded bitterness that never truly dies. For a moment, Alfred remembers how _great _ignorance had felt. How _great_ it was to soak in the sun and be small enough to hide away, like any child, from the thunder. How _great_ it was to have a _Big Brother_ to rely on, to lean on, and to love as family. These emotions swallow up the child inside the man, provoking a small, unnoticed –to Alfred – protest to Arthur, (_because that's not the Empire that raised me, huddled sobbing out for the both of us)_ to himself, the child he used to be; and to Life, once so _simple and easy:_

_"What happened? I remember when you where great."_

* * *

Well, time is a hasty healer; the bruises and broken dreams never set quite right. As he sets up the nation, many decisions cement within Alfred, the new U.S.A, whose streets it is rumored are paved with gold. He fought and won for his independence; and while he'll never admit it again, _because it hurts so much, _he _cannot let it be in vain._ If corruption and power swallowed those nations - and their personifications around him- then he will be different. Even when the nation within him chases gold coins, Alfred will still be standing in the cold and fire and ice and misery and loss and confusion, praying for heroes that he wants so badly to believe in. Even when he tries to keep the child within him he wanted but never got to hold onto – and drive those _who just don't get it _crazy in the process ; even when he has decided feeling's people's emotions hurts too much, because it makes him feel his own, he will hold onto that image of a hero. For the hero his personal tragedy didn't really have.

_The world was once so kind and inviting. Wrapping the child up in a blissful haze, blanketing him from those long exposed to the dark depths life can dwell out, that swallows the strong and corrupts the pure. Ignorance, Retaliation, Pain, Corruption, Greed and so many more ….These have swallowed up the child, and live with him. _

The world isn't so kind and inviting to him anymore.

Still, that isn't enough to snuff out his bright flame and keep him from _trying_…

_The End._

**Author Note:**

Well, that didn't quite go as I expected. So Alfred had all these mixed feelings over his father figure, who he loves as a big brother, and he ends up fighting for his freedom…Thus breaking parts of both their hearts. I wasn't expecting my plot bunny to run around the revolution itself so much, but there you go. I was also imagining this to turn out a little better…so sorry it's so choppy and failed angst! I really tried, please review and such so I can make it better for you all! Constructive Criticism welcomed, but please don't just flame me. Also, it's all in Alfred/America's point of view. I tried separating America as the nation; Alfred as the human. Let me know if I should write a fic, describing this from Arthur/ Britain's point of view! I don't have Canada or really anyone else in here because I was just going to confuse myself, and I wasn't expecting such a revolver around the revolution in the first place, oddly. And I do think Artie loves him as a son or younger brother… tell me if you want me to write his side! Reviews, PMs, ect are welcomed with open arms! Thanks so much for reading this, and a huuuge thanks to those who have read / commented/ faved/ The Roots of the Flower- Lovino and Feliciano! THOSE MAKE ME SO HAPPY THANKS SO MUCH TO YOU ALL!

Also, I'm probably about to start a multi fic, a human story with characters including Roderick (Austria) Gilbert (Prussia), Elizabeth – will figure out how to spell that in Hungarian – (Hungary)…Will begin posting chapters when that's done.

Thanks to you all, have great days!


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